


The Magnolia Revelations

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, Letters, M/M, On the Run, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24471205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: In an alternate reality that changes the Christian myth, Jesus dies in the arms of his betrayer and lover Judas Iscariot in a suicide pact. Or so the (incomplete) story goes. These are the versions of truth as told by the remaining faithful.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	The Magnolia Revelations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saffiaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/gifts).



**\- P R O L O G U E -**

_In the silence of early morning, hours before the first light of day filters through the stained glass of the newly built cathedral, a sculptor coaxes pathos and grace from granite, uncovering from hard stone the gentle features of lovers preparing to depart this world together. One of them holds a chalice; the other reaches for it, as if saying: “Let me drink all of it, and die in your arms, that you may go on without me.” Except that is never how the story ends. Their fate delivers them to the conclusion of every beloved tragedy that renders both its heroes immortal. To conquer death, you only have to die._

_Above their heads, forming a circular halo, are the words_ Supra Omnes Amor Et Remissionem _etched in stone._ _The same words that precede, in various languages, the prayer of Absolution._

_When the sculpture is complete, it will bear witness to countless vows of faithful union taking place beneath its entwined forms. The thankful and the troubled alike will raise their eyes in prayer to look upon the serene faces, artfully lit to emulate the glow of living flesh, and praise the name of the martyr and his betrayer who were united – so the story goes – in a final act of forgiveness and love eternal._

* * *

Dear Author,

You ask me what I know of the man who led our Jesus astray. I can tell you that the few years he spent in our company gave us little in the way of knowing him, for he gave himself wholly to one man only. You could say they gave themselves to each other in a way that doomed them both.

And yet in a sense, they were perfectly matched: happy in the way only two people who were meant to orbit each other at hand’s breadth can be. Each meeting just long enough to lead to a kiss that does nothing but make you hunger for the next one. Had they stayed that way forever, until one or both of them found another to give their hearts to, they would have had something perfect if evanescent.

But we are ever uncomfortable with a state of impermanence, aren’t we? As if battling our imminent mortality with the idea that Love itself is immortal. Love is forever.

Perhaps their love is, after all, at least to the adoring masses. Even now worshippers gather in churches built in their names and kneel before artistic depictions of their entwined bodies. Churches that would not exist if they had let go of each other, if they had let themselves forget, let time do what it does best. But both were as stubborn as rocks in an ocean. The most inexorable sea will not wash away memories steeped so strongly in anger and hurt and tenderness.

Who knows if they are alive to carry those memories still? But we are. We bear what remains of their relentless mission to never be separated by any force weaker than death itself.

You ask me of their first meeting. I know only what I have borne witness to. I remember a luminous evening, the kind where a soft rain ceases at just the right hour and the setting sun turns everything it touches into gold. They met beneath the shade of a sprawling magnolia tree, right where the side of the road that brought Judas into our lives curves into a low hillock. I remember how a fiercely idealistic young man, as beautiful as he was passionate, turned suddenly shy in the presence of the rugged castaway with the piercing eyes and the halo of cigarette smoke. Judas was some years older than him, old enough to possess the air of worldliness any young, independent, yet impressionable person is instinctively drawn to. And Jesus was a strange creature that way: an old soul with a young and yearning heart. Brimming with wisdom, but not enough to warn him away from a man who would be his undoing.

How I wish I had taken a picture! They were both so beautiful together. In my mind there are petals raining down around them; but surely that’s just the poetry of the imagination. Yet some things I did not need imagine. Like the way Judas’ eyes shone when they looked at Jesus, their intensity at odds with the disaffected way he leaned against his leather-and-chrome monster of a vehicle. Pretending not to be in love with the young man on his bike, even as a hand rested on one of the lithe thighs in tight dark jeans hugging the wide leather seat in a manner that was almost erotic.

There was a push and pull at play, the precursor to the mating game: Jesus barely masking his attraction behind an earnest stare and enthusiastic conversation, Judas keeping his own words sparse but responding with a deliberate unfolding of body language that said, _Tell me more. Give me more._

A better friend would have been afraid for him. Afraid that Judas (who was still a stranger to us then in all but name) would spirit him away on that motorcycle with its seductive scent of leather and take everything he had to give before discarding him by the wayside, as men like him were wont to do. And perhaps I did feel a twinge of concern when Judas’ hands slid up from his thigh to the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to tease the bare skin beneath. Their faces were but a breath apart. A spark and a tinder box waiting to set a world aflame.

And then Judas drew back abruptly, saying something that made Jesus’ shoulders stiffen and his smile falter. He was left cold and confused as Judas rode off with a curt goodbye and the last of the golden sunlight fled.

Would I rather he had never come back? Would that have changed so very much? These are questions I have no answer to. I am left only with the memory of that fading roar and the glint of chrome in the late evening, disappearing into the horizon. My heart is heavy as I write this. I fear I must end this message here, but you will hear from me again – though I can’t say when. Write to the others. Don’t wait for me. I am only one man, and as flawed as any man can be. The gospel truth comes from the mouths of many, not one. And I hope you will find the truth you seek. I pray we all will.

Yours in faith,

James

~

_For those with an insatiable interest in such things, there is a selection of curio shops and ‘museums’ of the less reputable kind displaying relics of the suicide pact that has become the subject of such reverence in the past years. From a water goblet that contained the poisoned wine with which the lovers ended their lives, to a bloodstained sheet as supposed proof that one or both of them had cut themselves in addition to ingesting deadly substances. (This notion was first popularised by a famous artistic depiction of the Absolution in which Jesus lies in Judas’ arms with crimson rivulets adorning his wrists.) There is even a well-known pawn shop with a section in the back that showcases the blade involved in the deed. If you look closely, you can see reddish-brown flecks lacing its edge that the owner insists is not rust, but the blood of the martyr himself._

_Multiple collectors claim to have locks of hair in their keeping; one of them also has a signet ring Judas was apparently wearing at the moment of death. The engraved symbol forms a 12, the number of Jesus’ first followers known as the Apostles. This number itself has been the subject of debate, but has since taken on the stubborn permanence of the sort of myth commonly upheld as fact._

_The stories vary, and so do the degrees to which such items appear authentic. Many agree that to profit from such displays are tasteless to say the least. And just as many flock by the droves to see them._

~

Have you ever felt so much loyalty to someone that they can set your insides on fire with a look? Call me mad if you must, but if he turned up on my doorstep now, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do for him. I suspect many who were close to him would feel the same.

That’s what happened to Judas, isn’t it? Or is it? I know no more than whoever else you have been corresponding with. I’ve heard all the rumours you likely have. Stories of lovers dying in each other’s arms rather than allowing the powers that be to tear them apart. It seems a bit melodramatic, but also…well, gives you a strange sort of _kick_ , doesn’t it? To see the making of a legend, of something larger than yourself – larger than all of us? Something that will live on long after we’re dead.

I feel terrible for saying that. I’d give anything to know he was alive.

I suppose you already know the story preceding whatever I’m about to tell you. About the growing paranoia surrounding the New Saint of Jerusalem, Israel’s Golden Son, whatever else the press labelled him as in a bid to own the next quote-worthy headline. It was all very thrilling at first – before it got out of hand and we were the ones dodging fires instead of starting them. (Alright, I admit to starting most of those fires. I can say that freely now that the old rule has been toppled and no one is going to knock on my door to arrest me for spontaneous arson. So I hope!) None of us were comfortable with the whole saint business; we found it all somewhat morbid. Saints are only sainted when they die. And he _was_ going to hang. For being a threat to the monarchy; for being an incendiary; a threat to the peace of the nation, whatever that means.

To my younger, foolish self, those accusatory headlines we made meant nothing, and the people’s adulation everything. All I knew was that he was brave enough to stick it to them all. I was an ignorant youth then, barely a man. And he seemed to me the perfect man: the sort I’d wanted to be when I grew up.

So you can imagine I wasn’t exactly thrilled when Judas Iscariot joined our circle. I admit that some of my reasons for disliking him were selfish. Was I not so enamoured with our leader, I would have been drawn to someone like Judas: his tattoos, his walk, the moody air of a born misfit. He got along well enough with most – well, some of us. You should know he was a dab hand at procuring contraband liquor, and I suppose he contributed much cheer to our gatherings. Which would last until his disagreeable streak emerged and things turned…unpleasant.

I admire people with fight in them, probably more than I should. But even the biggest playground bully would agree that Judas and Jesus fought far too often for two people supposedly in love. Once they even got alarmingly physical. By the time we managed to break it up, Judas’ t-shirt was ripped from collar to sleeve, and Jesus would have a large bruise on his face the next day. He looked like those posters warning the public about domestic abuse incidents.

And yet we witnessed them going off in each other’s arms that very night, presumably to sleep in the same bed.

I can tell you one other thing that might be of interest. Something I am no longer proud of, but that may be worth learning from. The day after, when I saw that dark purple smear marring the face of the man I so admired, something inside me snapped. I attacked Judas in the men’s bathroom while he was washing his hands. I can’t remember what I said – I just needed him to know that if he dared lay a finger on Jesus ever again, there would be consequences.

The tussle was brief but vicious. He only bested me when he managed to land his foot in my belly, three times. “You mad little bastard,” was the only thing he said before leaving me a blue-faced heap on the washroom floor. He sounded more surprised than angry.

I think I broke his nose. There was a lot of blood, and most of it not mine.

Jesus spoke to me about it later, away from the others. He said that I couldn’t just go about attacking people unprovoked, least of all one of us. “Our disagreements are between him and me,” he said. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“But that’s what we’re here for. We fight for each other. If I could take that shiner for you, I would.” I meant every word. I still do.

He fell silent for a while, with that thoughtful look so many have fallen in love with. Finally he clasped my shoulder and said, “Thank you. For being a loyal friend.”

As we walked back to the group, I couldn’t help adding: “We saw him leave you, James and I. That first time he rode off and left you standing there. We wondered why you took him back. Why you didn’t turn him away after he had hurt you so.”

His lips curved in a small smile. “I don’t know either. But I’ve never regretted it.”

What I did not say was this: _I would never have left you. I am here – I always have been._

When I dared to slide my hand between his, he let it remain there, likely out of consideration for my feelings more than anything. He dropped it only when he saw Judas leaning against that menace of a bike (which, admittedly, I coveted greatly). His eyes lit up and Judas smiled, a thin trail of smoke escaping his lips as they parted to kiss his lover. I wondered if those lips tasted of tobacco. I could not help comparing them to mine, thinking of all I could offer.

Judas must have caught me watching. His eyes gleamed at me over his cut-up nose, and surely he read the envy in my stare. He seemed to draw even more delight than usual in caressing the man I loved, squeezing and groping and touching him in places I never would, ignoring Jesus’ half-hearted protests that such things were better reserved for a place away from prying eyes.

(I never did peruse the resulting minor tabloid pieces that emerged the next day of the messiah’s public love affair. I imagine some of the cattier headlines saying things like ‘Is The Saint Slumming It?’ and ‘The King of the Jews Can Do Better’. I’ve certainly read worse.)

But I’ve said too much, haven’t I? I’ve been told I’m too forthright in the things I say and do, although I’ve grown up a bit from the idiot I used to be. I haven’t thrown a fist (or an elbow or knee) at anyone in years. And I’m capable of keeping secrets now. But then, what part of this story _should_ I keep secret? Exposés are being published as I write this. Sham biographies flood the market. It’s enough to make you lose faith in humanity. Except he wouldn’t have wanted us to. He’d have wanted us to keep the faith. To keep doing what is right, not what is easy.

I’ll try to remember that. It’s all any of us can do in his name. In the name of admiration, and devotion, and love. Even now my yearning is too great. Even now, if he asked me to – and though he never would – I would lay down my life for him. I dare say many of us still would.

We should have done better by him. We would have gone anywhere he led us, yet we were also his protectors. And what good were we in the end?

Jesus deserved better. That is a truth we will simply have to live with.

With all sincerity,

Simon

~

_The men he had been thrown in a cell with were drunkards of the worst sort. They were the kind that came in tailored suits and smelt of money and had become too rich too young. As mean as they were fearless, especially when filled to the brim with expensive whisky. Being arrested for unruly behaviour was merely an adventure to them – by sunrise tomorrow they would be free men once more. But he still had to survive them tonight._

_There were four of them against one of him. And they were just sober enough to recognise him._

_“Well if it isn’t the people’s hero himself. We should be so honoured, boys.”_

_“Mister Eat-the-Rich, huh? Did you forget who funds your soup kitchens? News flash: it ain’t the poor.”_

_“They worship him like the stupid sheep they are.”_

_“Still thinks he’s too good for us? We should do something about that.”_

_He ignored them at first, hoping their swagger was nothing more than talk. When one of them grabbed him by the collar, he tried to placate the man (who was really more an overgrown boy, years younger than himself albeit twice as wide, and with terrible breath). “I meant no insult,” he said. “And you’ve nothing to gain by beating me to a pulp.”_

_“Oh, I agree you’re too pretty to damage…much.” The other guy was leaner, taller, and had the air of a ringleader. “But you’re also wrong. I think you have plenty to give.”_

_Then four pair of hands were on him, pinning him down, one of them clamped tight over his mouth. Hands that took what they wanted because no one had stopped them before. They were all over him, casually tearing at his shirt, their whisky-stained breath on his face as they laughed and told him he should be so lucky, that they were only readying him for what he could expect in prison –_

_None of them heard the clink of the lock until Judas’ roar filled the place. Suddenly one of the sharp-dressed bullies was flying backwards; another was met with a foot to the crotch and howled as he collapsed. The night shift officer merely smirked at the sight. He had no love for these new-money thugs. Though were it not for his presence, Judas would have caused grievous and permanent damage to at least two of them._

_“The next time you start a riot, you better not get caught,” said Judas as he dragged Jesus out, who was shaken but uninjured, pulling his ruined shirt tight around himself. “I won’t always be around to bail you out.”_

_He threw his jacket around Jesus’ shoulders and held him close as they walked out into the night air. Beneath the halo of a streetlamp they stumbled to a halt, and Judas held him tight until he finally stopped trembling._

~

To Whom It May Concern.

I understand that your intentions are noble, and I apologize for being brusque. Due to personal reasons, I no longer wish to be associated with Jesus of Nazareth or the circle of followers formerly known as the Apostles.

I wish you the best of luck in finding the information you seek. I know a few who are only too eager to divulge what they know. But for the sake of respect and discretion, I will not name them.

Peter

~

Dear Author,

In two days’ time it will be the anniversary of what is now known as The Absolution: the famous disappearance, or death of, The People’s King and his lover Judas Iscariot. I was reminded of the letter I had so clumsily ended and thought perhaps I should honour Jesus with the truth where so many have endeavoured to profit from his name with obfuscations and outright lies.

Where do I begin – or resume, rather? I suppose it is worth mentioning that Judas was not always the adversary so many paint him to be. It is easy to cast blame on him as the outsider who joined us last, and who was part of us only for the love of Jesus. Of all people, he formed a tight if very odd friendship with Simon, the man who had given him the crooked nose he would wear for as long as we knew him. Perhaps he appreciated that Simon was the sort of person who would die for a friend at the drop of a hat. I have seen them get into fights to save each other’s hide, and those moments – bloody as they were – made us all even closer than we already were. Which is why it hurt so much when we lost them.

I would like to bring to attention a particular night I wish to commit to memory before it fades into oblivion. Hopefully you will see fit to include it in your collection of letters. Some may view it as insignificant, but I would like to believe that great stories are made of more than high drama and war and death. This little story concerns a road trip: the first one we went on after Judas joined our circle.

As I write the picture becomes clearer and clearer in my head: the campfire we took a full hour to build because of the damp, Judas playing his guitar and Mary using empty tins as makeshift drums, Jesus leading us in song with his strong melodious voice. After a while our singing faded away as one by one we were lulled by the late hour and the warmth of the fire, our bellies full of wine and food. I realised that Jesus had also fallen silent, and looked up to see that he had dozed off with his head on Judas’ shoulder. He looked so young in the soft flickering light, so full of radiant innocence, that one would never guess the weight of the burden he carried for us all. The weight of a premature sainthood he had wanted no part of. Heavy is the head that wears the crown of the kingdom of heaven.

In a moment of great tenderness that we must count ourselves lucky to witness, Judas lowered him gently to the ground and laid down beside him, smoothing out his hair, pulling the blankets over them. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the way so many said they died.

I remember glancing over at Simon, from whom I expected at least a little envy. For I knew that he would hold a flame for Jesus to the very end of our days together. Instead he looked sad and resigned, yet at peace. There was none of the ferocious firestarter present that night. Only a fiercely loyal friend.

You seek to separate the facts from fiction, which is why I continue to write you. I believe in the importance of your quest. And while I cannot provide all the answers, I can tell you what I know to be untrue, or at least unfounded.

 _Absolution._ The word here, if you do not already know, means two things: an act of ultimate forgiveness, and liberation from punishment (through death if necessary). There are two prevalent rumours that has become canon in the collective consciousness. One: that Judas betrayed Jesus to the authorities only to regret his actions at the eleventh hour, and beg for Jesus to forgive his sins before helping him flee the country. Two: that they perished through suicide, dying in each other’s arms.

The tragic romance of it all holds such appeal that we have been unable to unravel it from the stories now taught to young children as a fable of unconditional mercy and undying love. I suppose this in itself is not a bad thing. Although I have also heard of impetuous youths threatening to “commit Absolution” if their parents do not give in to their star-crossed union. We must not be too quick to judge them; we were all fools once. Some of us still are.

I, for one, do not believe that Judas had motive to betray his beloved. The bare-faced facts speak for themselves: Jesus was hardly a difficult man to find. It is ridiculous to think one might need insider information when a blind man could find him simply by following the trail of admirers he left in his wake. Tiberius’ army were only ever waiting for, or more likely formulating, the right reason to arrest him. Furthermore, were Judas truly the conniving type, he would have made more effort to ingratiate himself with us, or been more of a seducer. He did none of those things. Doubtless he and Jesus were attracted to each other from their very first meeting, yet by Jesus’ own account he was pushed away not once, but twice.

Their third meeting actually culminated in a row, with Jesus lashing out at him in hurt and frustration, before falling into his arms as his resistance finally melted away. They ended up kissing beneath the same magnolia tree where, if one believes in the mysterious workings of destiny, their fates had first been sealed.

It is said that violent delights have violent ends. That a love as tempestuous as theirs was bound to end in tragedy. But I believe the rumours of suicide hold no more water than the accusations of Judas’ crime.

There are a number of landmark memorials erected in their honour by groups of devotees not associated with any of us. I could take you to see the very first of them; but I will not. I cannot bring myself to stand before a false grave and see the candles and offerings left by worshippers who were lied to, led to worship an emblem built on speculation at best and falsehood at worst. Now you know why I was heavy-hearted when I wrote my first response. I know that one day I will feel differently about all this. We are, all of us, trying to heal. Trying to live as if we had not willingly given so much of our lives to him.

Yesterday I passed a group from one of these new congregations – Absolutionists, they call themselves – wearing the sign of the Entwined Lovers around their necks. It brought me a brief moment of comfort. Had Jesus been successfully tried and sentenced, his legacy would be one of torment and unjust death. Doubtless there are those who would flock to martyrdom in his wake, to die as their hero had died; but what would that achieve?

Rather, let his memory, and the memory of Judas, be one of mercy and compassion. May we all spend our final moments in the arms of one who loves us as much as they loved each other.

Yours in faith and remembrance,

James

~

_He was good with his hands, said those who had seen him coax fine filigrees or the likeness of soft skin from a coarse block of wood. As a child he had helped his mother knead flour into perfectly crusty, golden loaves that she sold to the neighbours. He was only five then._

_On weekends he ran a carpentry workshop with Mary and Peter and the local woodworking collective he had helped found. Children loved him, often tailing him around with endless questions, knowing his patience would not run dry the way it did with grownups. But then again, children knew better than to demand miracles of him. They asked him about animals and how the weather worked and why their lacquer had dried unevenly. And they understood him perfectly when he answered them as if they were small adults. The quieter ones would sit and watch him work, volunteering to help with fetching tools or sweeping up sawdust without being asked._

_When their parents arrived to find their little brats so industrious and well-behaved, they would smile fondly at him and ask him when he was having his own. It was not uncommon for single mothers to sidle up to him with a proposition in their eyes. One of them had offered outright to make a father of him. Mistaking his blushing diffidence as a yes, she had escalated the situation in a way that necessitated Mary coming to the rescue so he could politely extricate himself from her eager reach._

_To their surprise, they saw her and her two kids again the next week. This time she kept her hands to herself. Her faint hopes, along with those of several other unattached parents, were crushed when Judas arrived to assist with one of the woodworking classes and promptly pulled him in for a kiss as the children giggled and cheered._

_“Must you do that in front of everyone?” Jesus asked, not realising he was playing with Judas’ hair with one hand and clinging to the hem of his t-shirt with another._

_“Yes. And I’ll keep doing it until people know to keep their paws off my boyfriend.”_

_Jesus frowned, trying to bite back a smile. “I can take of myself, you know.”_

_“He’s lying. Mary has to beat them off with a stick,” said Peter as he passed them by._

_“Well. We’ve have to do something about that, won’t we?” Judas grinned wolfishly, kissing him again._

_A mischievous nine-year-old leapt onto a table and threw a confetti shower of wood shavings onto them. “They’re getting married!” she yelled as her friends whooped and applauded the couple._

~

Greetings again! My apologies for not responding sooner. My compatriots and I have been occupied with the production of a free publication – a zine, as these things are now called – promoting the Truth behind the myth of the Lovers. Its contents will present the facts of Jesus’ life and what we know of his lover Judas, how their stories have been misrepresented, and a brief interview from his own mother. I say ‘brief’ because it was incredibly difficult even to beg five minutes of her time. She has since gone into hiding from the world and refuses to speak to anyone lest her words are twisted and taken out of context, as so often happens with the mainstream media these days. I don’t suppose I blame her. The era when we put our blind trust in mass-produced print and broadcasts is over.

But I digress. You asked if I know of Mary Magdalene’s whereabouts, as you’ve had some trouble contacting her. I’m sorry that I don’t have her address or number written down anywhere. Your only bit of luck is this photo I have of her place of residence – attached for your safekeeping. If you look closely, you can see part of the road sign and the shops that line the same street where you will find her apartment. If indeed it is still hers.

One must keep the faith, at any rate. Surely fortune will favour those who defend the truth and uphold the honour of our heroes.

Before I forget: I would love to feature excerpts from your collection of letters in the second or third issue of our zine. If you are a believer, as I know you must be, then join us in spreading the word.

The truth will rise again. Jesus lives!

Yours in solidarity,

Simon

~

_They believed his touch would heal them. The broken and the miserable, the hopeless and the poor, the ones who had nothing left to their name but faith. And who was he to crush the last of their hopes?_

_He gave them what he could. He saw their faces glow as he spoke, their hands and eyes feeding off him, hanging onto every word, until he began to fear that even his most trivial utterance would somehow be set in stone as the divinations of a holy man. It took but a few to proclaim that their afflictions had disappeared overnight from being held by those blessed hands for the adulation to spread far and wide. The more they gathered, the more mindless their cries grew, and the stronger their eyes gleamed – hungry for an answer, hungry for the slightest brush of his fingers, more if they could get it._

_One fine morning, a crazed and weeping fan with bloodstained clothes fell upon him, burying a knife in his shoulder (while aiming for his heart). She was never sentenced for the act; she took her own life seconds after the object of her adulation collapsed in shock into James’ arms as cries of alarm rose all around them. In the clear blue sky above, circling crows shrieked their wordless song of warning._

_The Attempted Murder would later become yet another scene to be dramatized in artistic renderings and reenactments on stage and in film. Its brutal suddenness, the multiple witnesses, the drama of the attacker’s suicide – all these proved irresistible elements for those who wielded the tools to capture the public’s imagination. James, for all his staunchness, did not take well to the spotlight that cast him as the hero who carried the wounded Jesus to safety in so many paintings. “If I were a true hero, I would have saved him from that blade, or taken it in his stead,” was his constant protest. It did not matter; even now he can barely walk into a church without seeing his gallant likeness lining murals on the walls. But then, none of them who know the whole truth attend these churches, or gather to hear sermons built on hearsay and half-lies._

_Jesus was forced into seclusion for a time during his recovery, during which the fateful attempt on his life grew into a living legend of its own. It did not help that he was already marked for heresy and treachery. Never mind that there were thousands who would lay down their lives in his place. By the time The People’s King tried to undo the myth he had let stand, it was too late._

~

_{An account by Mary Magdalene, transcribed from a voice recording}_

Well, this is awkward. I’d planned out how I was going to start this, but now my thoughts are scattered all over again. I managed to scribble some notes – I’m looking at them as I speak – but now none of them seem right.

I injured my right hand during a stove-related disaster yesterday. Second-degree burns, not pretty at all, but it could be worse. Until the bandages come off and my skin grows back, my writing and typing abilities will be limited. I’ve never been great in the kitchen, you know. Whenever he came by – and his visits became rarer as time passed – I would bully him into cooking dinner. He makes the most amazing falafel.

Anyway…to answer your first question…

As far as I know, I was the last person in the circle to see Jesus before his now-famous disappearance. I don’t make such claims hastily; God knows the media will jump on any scrap and turn it into a sensation before you can protest about being quoted out of context. But you’re not one of those people, are you? I hope you’re not. So many of us have been damaged enough by lies and slander and even attempted blackmail. Peter has cut off all contact with us. He and I used to be so close, and now he won’t even acknowledge I exist.

Behind the creation of every ‘indestructible’ legend is a trail of destruction no one sees. I hope they will see it now.

I’m sorry. Where was I?

He came in from the fire escape stairwell, so no one would see him from the front. He had a stupid hat on. I told him it was a shitty disguise. And then I gave him a long hug. He looked like he needed it.

They’d been fighting again, which in itself is nothing new. But this had been an especially lengthy, fierce argument. He wasn’t inclined to go into detail, and I didn’t pressure him to. “All is forgiven,” was all he would say. I knew him well enough to be sure when he meant it. And he did.

Even now it hurts to think of the look on his face as he stood like a lost creature, a wounded animal, in my tiny living room. I’d seen him troubled before, but never like this. The quiet inner strength he always possessed seemed to have been stolen from him. He drifted like a ghost with arms crossed, eyes fixed on my floor, until I led him to the sofa. “I’ll make some coffee,” I said, knowing just how he liked his.

When I returned, he was absently rubbing the place on his shoulder where the scar was: the one marking the place he had been stabbed. He would do that unconsciously when he was in need of comfort. In that moment he did not look at all like a leader or a saint, but a guileless young man once more. The one who had been so taken with the outcast on the motorcycle as they locked eyes beneath a magnolia tree.

He didn’t say a word as we sipped our coffee in silence. After a long while I pulled him into my arms. He cried on my chest as I held him and stroked his hair, and he didn’t stop until the evening had turned to night. That was when he finally told me what I had already begun to suspect.

The churches and sermons will tell you that Jesus and his lover fled death to die on their own terms. The truth is this: it was not the law they fled, but the people.

A living saint exists to be adored, and hated, and stoned and worshipped. Existing for everyone and everything but himself. Did he become too famous too soon? Is there ever a safe path to such fame – one that doesn’t devour you inside and out? All I know is that fame had made him tired and afraid. He knew that we, too, would suffer. He didn’t know how to stop it all from happening. There are a few who condemn him for a coward. But they’re not the ones who have had to bear the weight he bore.

He told me other things that I cannot tell you. There are secrets I will take to my grave. I say this because I trust you not to beg or coerce them from me. I can neither confirm nor deny if Jesus and Judas met their end together, if they met it at all. But I will say this: they had dreams and plans, like any two people who loved each other enough to want to spend the rest of their existence together. However long or brief that existence may be.

As a seeker of truth, you must know also that there are truths better left known only to the few. There are lies that harm and lies that protect. Of course, there are those who oppose that school of thought. I have with me a copy of the publication Simon has been distributing. The sort that aims to expose things better left buried. I warned him against it. Obviously he did not listen.

Jesus Lives – says the glaring headline on the front. It frightens me, just as I was starting find peace again.

Let it be, I told him. Let their death stand so they may live safely in secret, if indeed they lived. Clearly my words fell on deaf ears.

With any luck, such claims will be seen as the ravings of a radical, wild conspiracy theories, little more. With luck, the passing of time will do what it does best.

Anyway. Somewhere around midnight, Judas came for him. Before he disappeared back down the stairwell, I saw him truly smile for the first time in ages. My heart was aching as I smiled back.

I went to the window to see Judas standing on the street below. He looked up and saw me, and gave me an awkward wave, a sort of half-salute. I waved back. In that moment our old animosity faded away behind us. I suddenly ached to have him back as well. For all his antagonistic ways, he had become a part of our lives. I wanted badly to run outside and chase them down and cling on to both of them. Plead with them to stay just a while longer.

Instead I watched as they walked to the very end of the street and climbed onto that big motorbike, and rode out of our lives forever.

~

_The letters were compiled, the notes of due thanks sent to their respective writers, their true accounts strung together into a proper memoir. One that never saw the light of day. Its author, once so filled with conviction, had begun to question the importance of truth versus what the lies had come to represent. If myth did more good than bare-faced facts, was it truly vital that is be demolished? What was to be gained by revealing the People’s King as a tired, haunted man who had abandoned the crown and fled from his own subjects? And what of Judas Iscariot? Would the blame for the abdication fall onto his shoulders, so that he would be known as the sinner who had failed his king instead of a devoted lover?_

_The book that might have changed history with its revelations remained unpublished. One day, its time would come. But that time was not now._

_A year after she sent the recording of her narrative, the author received an envelope from Mary. It contained a brief note along with several prints of drawings lovingly rendered in pencil and watercolour. Her message read thus:_

I trust this delivery finds you well. I received these artworks some weeks ago and decided that you should have prints of them. (The originals are, of course, too precious for me to part with.) They bore no name form their anonymous sender, but I suspect James’ hand in the strokes and delicacy of colour. He has an artist’s eye and soul. And I recognise his style.

If you publish nothing else – and I suspect you hesitate to show the world such truths that will damn as much as they uplift – perhaps you will not hesitate to publish these. The Absolutionists are so enamoured of their saviours’ end that they forget to be fascinated with how their love began. Their hearts are, of course, in the right place. And the wiser among them will come to see that love does not need tragedy to triumph.

Peace be with you, and with all of us. Supra omnes amor et remissionem.

With love,

Mary

_The first drawing shows the lovers by a campfire, Judas strumming a guitar as Jesus’ head rests on his shoulder. Their faces are softly lit by the flickering flame. The aged wood of the guitar takes on an incandescent quality beneath the artist’s touch, the strings gleaming like silver moonbeams._

_The second drawing is that of Jesus absorbed in his carpenter’s craft, rumpled shirt streaked with sawdust as he drives a chisel into what will become the back of a chair. A ray of sunlight casts an ethereal glow over the scene. In the doorway Judas stands in half-shadow, watching him. The lines of his narrow face are tempered by tenderness and a quiet admiration._

_The last illustration shows the two of them standing a mere breath away from a kiss, foreheads touching, beneath a sprawling magnolia tree that rains white petals upon them. They cling to each other not with possessive urgency, but with the assurance of two people who already belong to each other. A stray blossom is caught in Jesus’ hair like a pale snowflake against the dark. In the backdrop, the cloudless evening sky seems to stretch on forever. There is a small handwritten inscription on the bottom right that says ‘May you find the heaven you seek here on earth.’_

* * *

**\- E P I L O G U E -**

_The delicately detailed drawings, so different from the baroque tragedy of popular depictions of the day, garner immediate interest upon publication. There is a demand for prints and reproductions in every size, for wealthy collectors to adorn their homes with, for commoners to wear in cheap faux-gold lockets around their necks. Eventually Mary decides to bequeath the precious originals to a trusted curator who puts them on display in a travelling gallery. They are later auctioned off for millions to benefit the charities Jesus and the Apostles had worked hard to sustain. The anonymous artist never comes forward. This only increases the mystical quality of the art that no longer belongs to an individual, but to the masses. Stories and films portraying the saga of the doomed lovers are greatly influenced by the ethereal quality of the watercolour hues, as are other screen epics of the era. A little-known composer turns this saga into a series of songs that become a small stage musical, which is turned into an elaborate production that catapults him to fame. A few of the songs are played at both weddings and funerals in commemoration of undying devotion._

_The depth of the unnamed artist’s influence is also evident in the offerings placed at Absolutionist memorials all over the world. Aside from numerous candles and notes of wishful prayer, it has become customary to leave bouquets of snowy magnolias by the altarpiece of the entwined figures locked in their eternal embrace._

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The Latin phrase translates to "Love and forgiveness above all" (feel free to correct my grammar; I did some research and tried several variations, including possibly more accurate versions that did not flow as well off the tongue).
> 
> 2) In looking for the ideal shrubbery for the scene of Jesus' and Judas' first meeting, I settled upon magnolias as a symbol of strength and loyalty in love.


End file.
